


The Starry Night

by germanjj



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germanjj/pseuds/germanjj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The famouns Van Gogh painting got stolen from the Museum Of Modern Art. But Neal's interest in the heist seems to be more than just curiosity, might even change all their lifes in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this story is still unbeta'd, if anyone's willing to look it over, I'd be forever grateful!

~++++~

He doesn't know how they got here, doesn't remember how he ended up in the passenger's seat of his own car with Neal sitting next to him on the wheel, looking positively gleeful and relaxed, like it is Christmas and fourth of July combined that he is able to drive and make fun of Peter slouched in his seat, probably a little ... extra happy and talkative from the pain meds, his broken and bandaged arm carefully rested on his knee.

What is even more unsettling, is that he doesn't remember how they got into this whole conversation, or - to get to the point - how Peter ended up happily spilling his guts and his innermost secret to the former (and he uses the term very loosely in his head) criminal driving his car back to his house.

"So you did experiment in college!" Neal shouts out like it's the most hilarious thing in the world and he's grinning all over his face and Peter kind of hates him just a little.

"No, I did not," Peter makes crystal-clear, meaning he's slurring the words and grinning like a loon. Damn pain meds.

"I just said I wondered, alright? Like probably every guy does at some point in his life."

"You still do?" Neal asks, his eyes now firmly on the road so Peter can't read his face.

"Wonder?" Peter clarifies, and then, because he is fucking high on pain meds, that must be it, he answers, "Yeah," and with a dreamy sigh too.

Neal chuckles next to him, throws him a weird look. A mix of amusement and curiosity and - and that Peter hates the most - pity. "And you never did anything about it?" Neal keeps digging, keeps Peter talking and tomorrow, when his mind is clear, Peter will tell Neal exactly how he thinks about making your friends talk about his secrets when he's most vulnerable.

"You know I ... I have Elizabeth. And she's this beautiful, perfect ... woman. Who I really, really love." Peter grins, Peter knows he grins like a crazy person but when Neal's eyes catch his, he thinks Neal understands him anyhow. He has met his wife after all. "And it's ...," he shrugs," too late now. Happens to the best of us."

He wants to say more, he's pretty sure that there are praises of his gorgeous wife right at the tip of his tongue, but fortunately for Neal and Peter's own sense of self-respect, he's out like a light at the next turn.

~++++~


	2. one

\-- 1//1 --

 

The conversation in the car has slipped Peter's mind completely two months later. He's closing the door to the conference room, the team sitting around the desk sipping their first or second or fifth coffees, and he's holding the thin new file already in his hand. His eyes travel to Neal, who's looking more alert than the rest of them, eager and excited.

Oh, he's gonna love this one. Too bad he won't be able to do anything but sit here.

"Last night," he starts and waits for all eyes to settle on him. "One of Van Gogh's famous paintings got stolen from the Museum of Modern Art."

There is a gasp traveling through the room, raised eyebrows and open mouths directed at him - not many people are bold enough to mess with New York's most famous art museum -, but Peter's gaze fixes on Neal, who just seems to freeze.

"Which one?"

Peter sits down, puts the file in front of him, but he doesn't need to look to tell Neal. "It's The Starry Night. It got stolen around two a.m. this morning and so far we have zero leads."

"The Starry Night? Are you sure?" Neal asks and the look on his face makes the hairs on Peter's neck stand up. There's something... _off_ about it.

"Yes, I am sure. It's one painting from the steady collection of the museum. There has been another attempt to steal it in..." Peter looks it up. "In 2002. Back then the thief was disturbed early enough, this time it really is gone."

"So it could be the same person finishing what he started?" Diana cuts right to the point.

Peter nods. "Could be. Could be someone trying to beat his former competitor, trying to make it better. Could be an entirely different reason. As of now, we're looking into every motive and every angle."

His eyes travel back to Neal. The other man is staring ahead, obviously deep in thoughts, and the bad feeling in Peter's stomach rises.

"Jones," he addresses his fellow agent. "I want you to see if the painting is showing up on the black market already. Go see if there's rumor, word on the streets, even a whisper about the painting showing up - I wanna know."

Clinton nods. "Sure, Peter."

"Diana. You and I go visit the crime scene. Let's see if we can find something the local cops couldn't."

She nods too. "You got it."

"What about me?" Neal speaks up. "What am I gonna do?"

Peter sighs as he faces Neal, the others already halfway out of the room.

"You stay here."

"What?" Neal's face shows the exact signs of betrayal Peter was expecting.

It still stings.

"Look, Neal. I can't have you in on this."

Neal rises from his chair as Peter walks up to leave the room. Peter feels the other man's eyes burn into his back.

"Why not?"

"Because." Their eyes meet. "It's too close to home for you Neal. Just... stay here. Or go out and use your contacts to see if you can find out who the first thief was."

Peter stops at that thought. "You don't know who it was, do you?"

Neal just shakes his head, but the angry frown doesn't leave his face.

Peter sighs and walks through the door, makes a point. "We'll see you later."

 

\-- 1//2 --

 

Neal shuts the door to his apartments, deep in thoughts and carelessly locked in his own mind.

He startles, when Mozzie stands up to greet him.

"Hey... Neal," Mozzie starts, excited and literally gleeful at first and then he slows down, obviously reading the expression on Neal's face.

"Rough day at work?"

Neal glances up. "You could say so."

"So you did hear about the stolen Van Gogh?"

Neal's head shoots up. "Where did you hear about it?"

"Words travel fast, my friend." Mozzie shrugs. Then he frowns. "Did you do it?" He asks and he doesn't do a good job hiding the excitement in his voice.

Neal just shoots his friend a look.

"Well, a man can dream." Mozzie sighs and turns away again, back to whatever he was doing before Neal entered. "It would have been a great addition to our little... collection."

"Uhm, Mozzie?" Neal nods to the table when his friend looks up.

The table has three very... _interesting_ things on it. To Mozzie's left, there's an average sized bottle with a tiny ship in it; to his right, there's a remote - not one of Neal's as far as he can see - and right in front of Mozzie lies a shoe. A left one. It's a man's sneaker - again not one of Neal's, thank god.

"Do I even want to know?"

"I, my friend," Mozzie starts, while he's carefully packing the three items in his bag, "have a meeting."

Neal raises an eyebrow. Mozzie this agitated could only mean trouble.

Mozzie snorts, then sighs, as if he's giving up with Neal. "I intend to find out who stole the painting last night."

Something icy runs down Neal's back. "And then what?"

"Neal, it's The Starry Night! A true work of art! I need to take a look at it. Just once." He's practically daydreaming now. "I need to feel that paint under my fingertips, I need to smell that..."

"Okay, alright." Neal stops him in his tracks. He's rarely seen Mozzie this excited over something and he should have known it, but he didn't. Neal didn't know back then and he sees his mistake now. Sees, how this is gonna come back to him now.

"Be well, my friend," Mozzie announces, nods his head and turns for the door. "May you have a delightful evening. I will tell you all about it once I have witnessed that piece of perfection with my own two eyes."

Neal smiles at his friend, although it hurt just a little. "Yeah, good luck, Moz."

 

Neal draws in a deep breath as soon as Mozzie has left. He breathes out like he's been running a marathon, he drives his hands through his hair, rubbing his face.

He's never thought it would come to this. He's pushed it so far back in his own mind that he almost didn't remember anymore.

And now it's back. Threatening everything that Neal has worked for, threatening his precious life here, his friends. Everything.

Neal feels dizzy, one hand grabbing the chair before him to steady himself.

His mind is running off, running through the options he has, but it's too fast, too much, too unbearable all at once.

The only thing that's ringing clear over and over, is that he has to find that painting. Before Mozzie does. Before Peter does.

Neal's pulse slows down a bit, his breathing almost back to normal, and his eyes fall on the spot on the floor, the one he has never even glanced at since he moved in here.

He's not walking over to it now either, doesn't touch it yet.

But the knowledge of what's beneath it, calms and crushes him all at once.

 

\-- 1//3 --

 

The bureau feels different with nobody there. Only the assistants and the agents working on other cases are in - people Neal knows by sight and some few words exchanged on the go, but without the others, he's still the outcast.

Still the thief.

Neal finds it at least a little bit comforting and a lot more troubling that Peter didn't let Jones stay to watch him.

Neal is still benched today, nothing for him to do but sitting at his desk and twirl his thumps and push some papers.

He isn't able to concentrate on anything else though.

He knows what he has to do, needs to do, to prevent any more damage.

 

Neal knows where the Van Gogh file is, knows that Peter is leaving most of his notes in there instead of carrying them around with him. He knows that Peter likes to come back after a long day and bring them all together.

Neal glances around.

He has to move fast and he has to move now.

Amanda from the left corner and Bill from the desk opposite to Neal are gossiping in the coffee room and Neal has exactly as long as it takes them to finish their small cups to get into Peter's office unnoticed and take a quick look at the file.

With his eyes on the coffee room, Neal makes his way upstairs, quickly and without making a sound, and he slips into Peter's office, ducks down behind the desk. It's not hiding him completely but it will do the trick as long as somebody is just glancing up here.

With his right hand, he opens Peter's locked drawer easily. He uses a small needle, doesn't even need to look to pick the lock.

The Van Gogh file is lying on the top.

Neal opens it and doesn't find much. Just a few descriptions of the crime scene and the witness report from the guard who did in fact see nothing.

Neal frowns and puts the file back.

He had hoped for just a bit more to go on, but nothing in there sounds familiar, no little detail that would do what it can't for everybody else working here: pointing out to a fellow con-artist.

Neal presses his lips into a thin line, thinking about his next step. There are a few options, some that involve Mozzie and some that would need a lot more money and more risks, but Neal could do them alone.

The decision is easy.

Neal closes the drawer, lets it click back into the lock, and stands up.

He co-workers are already by the door of the coffee room, but still absorbed in their little chat.

Neal slips out of the room and is back at his desk even before the two turn around.

 

\-- 1//4 --

 

"Peter," Neal announces, smile firmly in place, and the few suspicious papers lying carefully hidden on his table.

"Neal." Peter nods, his smile mirroring Neal's own. Neal doesn't even try to fool himself that Peter is not seeing right through him. At least he knows that something is going on.

Neal lets his friend in, closing the door behind him, and he watches Peter and how his eyes travel subtlety through the room.

If Neal wasn't looking for it, he might even have missed it.

"So how was your day?"

"Unproductive.” Peter turns to face Neal. “We got literally zero leads. Whoever that guy is, he is good. Left no traces. A few cameras caught him, but only from behind. He was wearing a hat, he was wearing gloves, he made no mistakes.”

Neal snorts and only when he meets Peter's eyes he realizes that he slipped.

"I know what you're up to, Neal," Peter states, and for a second, Neal's heart stops beating, before he realizes that Peter is talking about something else. He's wearing the half angry, half amused and vaguely curious look of his.

His face would be entirely different, if Peter was talking about something else.

"Neal, I know you, I've been tracking your anklet and I know you've been in the bureau for a few hours before you left. You didn't go home, you didn't meet Mozzie. You kept inside your radius but you went to a place you rarely have been before."

Neal's grin turns brighter as his insides grow cold. "You really got a tight leash on me."

Peter makes a face. "You wanna tell me what you found out?"

Neal hesitates another moment, then grabs for the file hidden underneath some magazines on the table. He opens it, turns it, presenting it to Peter.

"Jeffrey Eindhoven," he explains, gives a name to the blurry picture Peter is studying. "He's from Amsterdam, been in New York for roughly ten years."

"He's not an art thief. He steals because he suddenly decides he needs to have something. He's not what we'd call smart, but he's lucky most of the time. Stole a few things here and there over the last years, always gave them back when he got bored."

"Sounds like an art thief to me."

"He gives them back," Neal repeats.

"And besides, he doesn't do it for the right reasons."

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. "There are right reasons?" There's a smile tugging at the corner of Peter's lips.

Neal doesn't answer. He's pretty sure Peter knows what he means anyway.

"So, how do you know it was him?"

Neal lowers his eyes. "Can't tell you," he tells Peter, doesn't mention why. Doesn't mention the money and the names that have been traded.

"Neal, how are we supposed to get this guy, when you can't tell me anything?"

"I'm working on it," Neal assures him. "His apartment is inside my radius, I can- "

Peter raises a finger.

"-watch him, see if he's making a mistake."

Peter's lips form a thin line, but eventually he looks back up at Neal and nods. "Just watching," he orders.

Neal nods sincerely.

He's learned to lie before he learned to ride a bike.

 

\-- 1//5 --

 

Jeffrey Eindhoven's "apartment" couldn't look more clichéd if he tried. It is big, of course, way too big for an apartment in Manhattan for only one person, and filled to the brim with art, carelessly displayed or even used as simple decoration.

Neal shudders, feels dirty only walking the floor in this building. His eyes catch a few pieces he would have loved to own himself, but he keeps himself in check, keeps his focus on the task at hand.

Nothing is more important than The Starry Night.

The security system though is surprisingly shallow.

Nothing Neal hasn't seen before. Nothing he hasn't broken in before.

He's in the main hallway not even five minutes later, carefully placing each step.

Jeffrey is probably asleep, in the bedroom on the other side of this hall, which makes a surprisingly large distance.

Neal didn't come to get the painting now.

What he needs is to see this place. To look at the life of Jeffrey Eindhoven to find out where he would hide such a treasure.

Neal snorts as he realizes that he wouldn't be surprised to find it hanging on a wall in the kitchen.

Neal has a small flashlight, one that casts only enough light to see his surroundings, but not too much to be suspicious. He walks through the living room first, soundless, only letting his eyes travel through the room and taking everything in.

He doesn't find much.

At least not something that tells him where the painting is hidden. Eindhoven's place is cluttered in stuff. Trash and expansive art and furniture all mixed together and although Neal can see that this guy has a lot of money, he's certainly not using it for a maid.

He makes his way into what looks like a dining room.

It's not better in here, it's actually worse. Neal's heart clenches in pain as he finds a Picasso standing in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust. He swears to himself to come back and get it.

Neal turns away, points the flashlight at the opposite corner.

He startles, biting down on his tongue, as the light reaches another man.

Jeffrey Eindhoven has a gun.

And the weird glint in his eyes tells Neal that he's not afraid to use it.

"You're really trying to rob me?" Jeffrey laughs and Neal despises him even more than he did entering the apartment. This guy is clearly insane.

"Dude," the other man starts," there's a reason why I don't have a good security system." He spreads his arms. "It's an invitation for you guys! So who are you, huh? Do I know you? Your name?"

A shiver's running down Neal's spine as he realizes two things. One, that guy is like a grown-up version of a highschool kid that never belonged to the cool clubs and two, he's probably gonna shoot Neal any second now.

"You're not talking, eh?" Jeffrey makes a face-

-and Neal jumps to the side the exact moment the gun fires. The flash of light blinds him for a second, and the a sharp, hot pain bites into his side.

He crashes against the dining table, but he's back on his feet when another shot falls, and Neal is out of the room and around a corner before it can hit him this time.

He clenches his teeth and presses a hand to his side where he can already feel something warm and sticky seep against his fingers.

He can still hear Jeffrey's footsteps behind him, but there's no alarm yet, so Neal is pretty sure that their won't be.

Jeffrey is a lunatic but not stupid. Waking up the whole block now would mean a lot of people, a lot of cops investigating his apartment.

Neal runs down two floors before he pushes the buttons of three elevators, lets them run to various floors, before he gets into a fourth.

He hates taking this risk. But Neal's on the thirty-seventh floor and the pulsing against his hand tells him that he can't take the stairs all the way down.

He sits down on the floor, resting against the cold elevator wall, when the doors close.

He fumbles for the cell phone in his pocket, flipping it open and scrolling down to a Jonathan St. James.

"Hey, Mozzie," he says into the phone. "I think I screwed up."

 

\-- 1//6 --

 

"Honey, you look distracted." Elizabeth is touching his hand, pulling him right back into reality with her warm skin and her worried smile.

Peter looks down at his coffee, takes another sip, but it's already lukewarm. "Yes, I ... It's just Neal." He makes a gesture with his hand, wiping the issue away as if it was just that easy.

Elizabeth smiles at him, tilting her head in the way she does when she's making fun of him. "When has it ever been "just Neal"?"

Peter nods. He should feel guilty but his wife is right. There's no hiding it.

"Oh, who's that?" Elizabeth grabs for her phone as it starts ringing, her forehead wrinkling as she looks down on the display. She shrugs at Peter.

"Elizabeth Burke?"

Peter watches her face change. She knows the caller, but she doesn’t look less concerned.

"Mozzie. Where ... where are you? It's so loud around you."

Peter and Elizabeth share a worried glance, Peter’s heart doubling it’s pace.

Something happened.

Something serious enough for Mozzie to actually call them. On a phone. Without secret code words and a voice-changer.

Peter has to stop his hands from ripping the phone from his wife's hands and he's relieved as she looks at him, shrugging again, and handing him the phone.

"He's calling from a phone booth," she whispers and Peter can see that she's worried too, that she too understands that something is not right.

"Mozzie?" Peter speaks into the phone. At the same time, his own phone starts buzzing and Peter takes a quick look, barely registers the bureau calling him.

"Look, can we make this quick?" Mozzie says on the other end and he sounds stressed, reminding Peter of a little kid whining when he had to do something he didn't want.

"What happened?" Peter wastes no time.

"Neal got shot."

For a second, Peter's world comes to a screeching halt. Everything stops, everything. There's only blood rushing in his ear, nothing else.

Nothing but the three words ringing inside his head.

"What?" he croaks.

 

\-- 1//7 --

 

"It's too bad that you're not trapped in a hospital bed, hanging on machines to keep you alive, because then I would at least feel some pity for you," Peter rages the second Neal opens the door of his apartment to him.

"It's just a flesh wound, Peter," Neal sighs, steps back to let him inside the illuminated room. "I was released not even an hour later. But thank you for your concern."

"Breaking into the guys apartment?" Peter asks incredulously. "Neal, are you out of your mind? You're lucky that Mozzie called before the bureau got a hold of me, so I could make up a vague story about the reason why you would be out of your radius."

"I should arrest you, right here and now. I should finally put an end to this." Peter storms past him, even angrier now that he's face to face with Neal.

"You could have died, Neal." His tone is low now, almost clinical. "A few inches, and we wouldn't have this conversation right now."

Neal turns away from him and Peter can see his jaw clench, knowing that Neal tries to keep himself under control. "I didn't," is what he finally says.

"You're out."

That makes Neal's head turn again, big eyes looking at Peter.

"You're sitting this one out. And I mean completely. You stay away from the office until we got this guy and if your tracking anklet is even hinting at you going to do something about this case, I will personally bring you back to jail. Are we clear?"

Neal is furious. It's obvious in the line of his jaw, his tense posture, the clenching of his fists. "You cannot do this."

"I can and I will."

"Peter," Neal steps closer, right into his personal space," We both know that without me, you barely have a shot at getting this guy. I know him. I know how his mind works."

Peter doesn't even blink. "That's exactly what's worrying me."

Neal looks hit, takes a few steps back. "What are you scared of more, Peter? That I get myself killed? Or that I might find a job I can't refuse to take?"

Peter's ready to slap Neal in the face. And not just a nice, gentle hit, meant to clear the other guy's head, no, he wants to make his head turn and wants to see his red fingerprints on the cheek for the next few days. He's not a violent person, not by any means, but Neal's too naive for his own good; the most intelligent person he knows, yes, but he runs blue eyed into every disaster he can find.

And Peter's done with watching and caring and worrying and spending his nights saving the other guy's ass when he could spend them at home with his lovely wife.

"Peter," Neal whines, literally whines, switching from being angry to pleading again, and Peter gets it, he does. He knows how important this is to Neal, can see it in the other man's eyes every time they even come close to the subject. He knows Neal good enough to see how hard it is for him, how it's eating him away that he's so close to what he does best and still can't do anything.

And that's what worries Peter the most.

So he can't let him. He won't.

"No. Neal, it's my last word." He actually slams his hand flat on the table before him, feels like his own father doing this but Neal just won't listen, doesn't understand how this is only for his own good.

"You can't shut me out." Neal shakes his head, speaks with a lump in his throat like a little kid. And Peter is dying to know what this really is about.

"I can and I will," Peter makes his point.

They're only a few feet away from each other, the light from the desk illuminating their distance. The distinct sound of New York is falling through the open window, quieter now that it is almost eleven and the rush hours long over.

"I'm not a baby, Peter and I don't need protection!" Neal raises his voice, raises his hands too, and Peter wants to slap the back of the other guy's head just to show him how much of a child he is behaving right now.

"I'm done discussing this with you, Neal," Peter goes on, pulls out the tone he's learned to use as an FBI agent and Neal knows this tone, hates it when Peter uses it on him.

"So you don't trust me, after everything?"

"No!" The word is out before Peter can think about what he's saying and Neal is taken aback, literally. He takes another step away from Peter, his eyes wide. He looks hurt.

"Neal," Peter starts, although he doesn't know what he wants to say, because the truth is, he doesn't trust Neal. Can't. Neal is not letting him.

They're staring at each for a moment, Peter feels trapped in revelations and all these things hanging between them, but there's nothing he can do. He just watches Neal's posture change, watches his face close off and his body turning stiff.

"Alright. I guess I understand now." His words are ice cold, biting with every syllable.

"No, I think you don't, Neal."

Neal cocks his head, an empty look on his face, and he's widening his stance, raising his arms. "Then tell me. Tell me why you can't trust me. Why you won't let me help you with a case you know I could do with eyes closed and hands cuffed behind my back. Tell me why you keep parading me around like a shiny toy, holding me on a tight leash and then letting me do nothing."

Peter clenches his teeth at Neal's words, can't believe what he's hearing. It's Neal and his words are meant to hurt, meant to cut deep, but it's _Neal_. He doesn't seem to know how good he is at this.

"I am trying to protect you," Peter says for what feels like the thousandths time, slowly and punctuated. "You don't take an ex-alcoholic into a bar, you don't let an ex-druggie work in a pharmacy."

Neal swallows, nods, and the grin he's wearing is nothing but pain. Peter tries to remember how they got here, how they can so easily hurt each other, but then again this has always been there, right underneath the surface, and it's not the first time it's showing it's ugly face.

It's only the worst.

"I can't work and wonder what you will do next, Neal. I can't sleep at night and wonder what you're planning next. You have a life here, a good life, and damn it if I'm not trying my best to protect it. I'm not letting you make another mistake that brings you back to jail. Forever this time."

Silence vibrates between them after Peter's words, their eyes are locked in a never-ending stare. It's an old argument, but Peter sees in Neal's face that there is a new meaning to it. If he only knew what.

"Where are you going?"

Neal shakes his head, walks by Peter and grabs his jacket.

"Neal!"

"Going for a walk," Neal answers and he doesn't meet Peter's eyes. "Please lock the door when you leave."

"Neal." Peter feels stupid repeating his name but he stands there, unable to think of something to do.

Neal is already by the door, the hand on the doorknob, when he turns back around. "And you know what, Peter?" He pauses, the blue of his eyes stabbing. "I've never been a guy who just wonders."

And Peter is right back in the car, right back in the moment he'd pushed to the back of his mind.

It stings immediately, conjuring up the long forgotten conversation. Peter feels his cheeks flame, feels his breath stutter.

It's a low blow and never something Peter ever thought Neal would be capable of, but it hits right where it counts, builds up images in Peters head like a flash, pictures of Neal kissing another guy, Neal on his knees, Neel writhing in sweat under another male body and suddenly Peter feels sick.

And very turned on.

The air in the room flips, suddenly and inevitably, and Peter feels like he can't breathe.

Neal's hand is still at the door but he's not moving, not leaving.

"Neal, don't do this. Don't leave," Peter says and it's like a déjà-vu, a never ending game he and Neal are playing, and Peter wonders how many times he can win before Neal finally leaves for good.

"You made your point, Peter," Neal says, straightens. "Goodbye."

"God, Neal." Something snaps inside Peter, something that lets anger flare inside him, something that makes his leg move towards the other man, makes him pull Neal away from the door. "You don't understand anything, do you?"

He reaches him, catches Neal on his arm, but then he doesn't know further, doesn't know what needs to be done to stop Neal from leaving.

"Let me go, Peter," Neal spits out and there it is, the anger: raw, untamed anger not longer hidden underneath the stony face. Peter almost feels good seeing it.

"I'm gonna arrest you right here, right now, if you leave now," Peter threatens, takes another step closer to Neal, and their arms are brushing, their breaths mingling. It's a stupid threat, childish and unprofessional, and yet Peter is ready to grab for the handcuffs, ready to do anything not to let him walk through this door.

"Do it." Neal's face is a challenge, his eyes blazing. He's right up into Peter's space, meets his eyes without blinking and Peter's heart is jack hammering in his chest.

And Peter just... crashes, bursts, _breaks_.

He launches forward and presses his lips against Neal's, holds the other man's face in his hands and captures his mouth, and the sensation explodes on his skin.

It's better, it's so much worse than he ever thought possible.

It's not the same, it's not just another set of lips, it's a man he's kissing, it's _Neal_.

Peter stumbles back in shock, panting, eyes wide, and he can't believe what he just did.

Neal doesn't look much different, staring at him the same way.

"Neal, I'm...," Peter croaks, deeply appalled by himself, and panic is starting to creep up his neck, clawing around his heart.

Until Neal dives forward and crashes against him, sealing his mouth with his own and Peter can't do anything more than take a last desperate breath before he jumps headfirst into the abyss.

Neal's anger is still there, is in every bite of his lips, in every touch of his tongue and God, it's so good, so deliciously good, when Peter open his mouth and lets him in, let's him get closer still.

They're moving. Away from the door - God, finally - and back into the room.

They stop, as Neal winces and moans into Peter’s mouth, and it takes a second until he realizes that they hit the table, that the hard edges are pressing into Neal’s back.

Peter wants to pull back, wants to clear his head, but Neal chases right after him, claims his mouth like he can’t get enough of it, and Peter’s going crazy.

Any thought of stopping is leaving Peter's mind completely. He only wants closer, wants more.

His hands push right under Neal's shirt, ripping it out of his pants, over his head.

The shirt still in his hands, soft and skin-warm, Peter swallows heavily at the sight of Neal.

They're staring at each other, wide-eyed and panting, and Peter can't get enough of Neal leaning against the table, miles and miles of beautiful tanned skin on display, and with his eyes shadowed, his hair disheveled, his lips full and pink.

Peter's gaze falls on the white bandage, sitting high across Neal's slim waist and Peter reaches out, let's his fingertips slide over the cotton.

His hands are shaking.

Neal freezes before him, holding his breath, and when Peter looks up, Neal is biting down on his lip, looking up at him too, and Peter's never seen something more erotic in his life.

He gasps involuntarily, and the next second he's down on his knees, out of his mind crazy, and he does it: his hands around Neal's hips, he buries his nose in the soft fabric, presses his face against Neal's belly, before he moves further down and lips graze that alluring skin.

Neal groans low somewhere above him, but Peter doesn't get distracted, placing open mouthed kisses on every spot he can find, licking it with his tongue, tasting it, tasting Neal.

It's a rush.

Neal's warm and pliant under his hands, but so distinctly male, all hard planes and strong muscle, and Peter loves it, is addicted to it, can't get enough.

It's when Peter gently bites down on the flesh right underneath the navel and Neal moans loudly, openly, groans out Peter's name, that he gets kicked right back into reality.

Peter lets go as if he's been burned, stumbles back on his knees and stares up at Neal, shocked at what he's done, shocked at what he's feeling, what he's wanting.

Awkwardly, he gets back on shaky legs, and he turns to the door, takes one step after another without a word, without looking back, just needing to get out.

Neal's eyes follow him all the way, even haunt him when Peter's is long out of the building.


	3. two

\-- 2//1 --

 

It’s starting to get ridiculous.

Peter's never felt more out of place than he is feeling right now, here, in the middle of the meeting room, the usual place, the usual ungodly hour, the usual faces looking up at him.

But everything is different today.

Neal is not looking at him.

And Neal and he ... they are different today.

"Boss?" Diana pulls Peter back out of his own mind.

She doesn't say anything else, only slightly turns her head and looks at him questioningly.

"Yes, right. So." Peter fumbles with the pen in his hand, feels the eyes of the whole room focused on him.

"Neal," he starts and is shocked by the way his voice quivers, just slightly, but enough that at least Neal would notice. "He found us our thief."

Several heads turn to Neal, but Neal is still looking down at the desk.

Peter turns his gaze away, looks at the file instead.

"His name is Jeffrey Eindhoven," he starts and tells his team what they have.

Neal keeps quiet the whole time.

"So we know who he is and where he is and yet we still can't do anything?" Diana's raspy voice silences the murmurs that started with Peter's story.

Peter nods. "Pretty much."

"But we're sure that he's our guy?" Jones asks.

"I think we can ... trust Neal's contacts with this." Peter risks a short glance, finding Neal looking at him for the first time today. Peter swallows thickly. "Now, what we have to do is find a way to prove that he stole the painting. And - more importantly - we have to find it."

 

"Neal, can I have a word with you?" Peter asks when the meeting is over. He looks down at his files, feels his face heating up. He can't remember ever feeling this embarrassed in his entire life.

The door to his office shuts, the sound of it echoing in Peter's belly.

He looks up.

He and Neal are alone.

Neal is still standing behind the desk, half the room away, and he's not making any attempts to walk closer.

"Peter." Neal nods friendly, looking directly at him now, his face giving nothing away.

"Neal, I..." Peter stands up straight, clears his throat. He's a little bit proud of himself when he manages to meet the other man's eyes.

"Listen, I am sorry. There is no ... I was out of line, extremely out of line yesterday, and I ..." Peter stops, helplessly. "I just hope you can forgive me."

He coughs, nestling on his tie, when Neal doesn't answer. "I can understand if you don't."

"Peter, no, I'm ..." Neal whispers and Peter looks up, being surprised but the hesitant words.

Neal meets Peter's eyes. "I'm incredibly sorry. I shouldn't have ... let it get so far. You were clearly ..."

"Upset," Peter helps, and immediately his heart is beating faster in his chest and his throat gets dry.

"I shouldn't have taken advantage like that," Neal apologizes.

Peter shakes his head. "No, it's my fault, I shouldn't have ..."

"And Elizabeth," Neal goes on, throws just another punch to Peter's gut," I know how much you love her and you know I love her and I would never do something like that to her and ..."

Peter draws in a deep breath.

They're acting like schoolgirls, tumbling over their words.

"Obviously, it didn't mean anything," Peter says, looking down at the carpet when the words start to ache inside his chest.

"Obviously," Neal repeats and Peter is sure he only imagines the hollow sound to his words.

"So, we're good?"

He watches Neal nod. Peter wishes he would feel relieved now.

He doesn't.

 

"Neal, there's something else." Peter stops the other man at the door.

Neal waits, turning back to him.

"I know Mozzie is getting involved with the painting." He's had the report on his desk this morning. Another team had found surveillance photos and heard a few whispered words. Peter isn't quite sure why he didn't say anything to anyone when he recognized the little man.

But he's convinced himself that maybe Mozzie could lead them to the painting and it's thief.

Bigger fish and all that.

Neal raises an eyebrow at Peter's revelation, tries and fails not to show how surprised he is.

Peter has been too.

Normally, Mozzie is better than that.

Normally, Neal would have at least known what Mozzie was up to.

"I won't hesitate to arrest him if he gives me reason to," Peter warns but he's sure that Neal understands it like the friendly advice it's supposed to be.

 

\-- 2//2 --

 

Neal leaves the bureau like he always does.

He smiles at Becky at the front desk, tips his head at Gregor at the door. His steps are normal, his pace not rushed. He calls down a cab, is friendly to the driver, tips generously like he always does.

Inside, Neal tries to remember how to breathe.

He doesn't know if he did take even one breath since Peter left his apartment last night.

Neal closes his eyes against the images assaulting his mind.

Peter, his eyes dark and his lips kissed-bruised. Peter's hands shaking against Neal's pale skin.

Peter down on his knees.

Neal shudders lightly, the memory still making his head spin and his skin itch for more.

He closes the door to his apartment, resting against it with his eyes pressed shut.

When he opens them again, his gaze falls on the spot on the floor.

This time he crossed the distance and kneels down. He uses the letter opener he's grabbed from the table and pushes it between the floor panels.

He only knows where the spot is because he chose it. Nothing gives it away, no mark, no traces.

He's opened this very hiding place just once before.

His brows draw together angrily when he notices his hands shaking.

The wooden panel still opens easily under Neal's efficient hands. His hands find the items in the dark corners of the hole, and he puts one away instantly, knows this one inside and out by now, since he has a few just like this hidden in various other places.

But the other thing.

Neal has never taken a closer look before.

He does now.

The passport looks old, worn, used. Like it had been part of a live lived, like it belonged to a real person, carrying it with him along all the short and long journeys in life. Not like it had been lying months and months under Neal's floor, just waiting for the day Neal would need it.

Neal had always hoped this day would never come.

He opens the passport, studies the picture of him for a moment. It's one of many, resembling him enough but not too much to be raising any flags.

It's the name that Neal's eyes fall on now.

He hasn't read it before, on purpose, didn't want the name already saved in the back of his mind.

It's a name he hasn't read before now.

It's a name not even Mozzie knows about.

Neal draws in a deep breath and lets himself fall back, sits with his arms around one of his legs, staring down on the little document that could change his world forever.

"Plan B," he whispers to himself, trying to believe it.

But with Mozzie's sudden obsession of finding that painting and Peter's reluctance to let a case get to rest without knowing the full and complete story, Neal knows that deep down, his chances of sticking to plan A, of just finding the painting and hiding his secret once again, is getting pretty slim.

 

\-- 2//3 --

 

"Neal." Mozzie's voice finally cuts through and Neal startles, sits up and blinks like he just woke up.

The look he earns is half annoyance, half pity.

"Neal?" Mozzie says again and this time it's a question.

"Hm?"

Mozzie sighs, lets his hands fall on the table. "Okay, what is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" Neal gets up from his chair, walks over the board to get another glass of vine. It's later, much later, and Mozzie is sitting at Neal's table once again.

He studies Neal for a moment, even tilts his head, as if he's seeing something disturbing and yet very interesting.

"You know for a con-man, you are a very bad liar. It's a tragedy."

"Well, you can not succeed in everything."

"True. Even Achilles had his ... Achilles' heel."

Neal sighs. "Nothing is wrong with me, Moz."

Now Mozzie stands up, too. "Au contraire." He raises a finger. "There is one of the most beautiful paintings somewhere hidden in New York - and don't tell me you're not interested in The Starry Night, I've seen your notes about it a few years ago - , your FBI friend is looking for it which means you're even investigating said case and still."

He raises his hands. "Nothing. You're acting like you couldn't care less."

"That's not true," Neal rushes in.

Mozzie looks up at him, frowning. "Why are you lying to me?"

Neal doesn't answer. He turns away from his friend, feeling caught, trapped. Mozzie is already too close to the truth.

"Is it Peter?"

Neals spins back around, feeling incredibly shocked and incredibly relieved at the same time.

"What? Why would you say that?"

Mozzie sighs. "I have seen you like this before, Neal. Obsessing, brooding."

Neal clenches his jaw. "When?"

"With Kate."

 

Neal is saved by the ringing of his phone.

He startles, but reaches for it immediately, grateful not to have to answer.

He wouldn't know what to say.

Neal glances down at the caller-ID. "It's Peter," he says and his voice sounds weird even to his own ears.

"Of course," is Mozzies answer, and then his friend turns around, gathers his things and leaves the apartment.

Neal answers the phone.

"Neal, look." There's a pause at the other end of the line. "This is ridiculous. You should be here. You should be working on this case with me and we should catch that guy before he disappears forever and I should trust you more, because you earned it, Neal. You earned my trust now."

Neal swallows thickly, feels bile rising in his throat.

"What can I do?" he answers, keeping his voice as straight as he can.

"We got an anonymous tip," Peter explains. "Eindhoven might sell the painting tonight."

Neal frowns. "Are you sure? I don't think he would sell it. Not so soon anyway."

He can practically see Peter shrug wherever he is right now. "It's worth a shot. We're sending two teams for surveillance. You wanna come with, partner?"

Something inside Neal shifts, something sweet and big and surprising. He feels himself smile. "Absolutely."

 

\-- 2//4 --

 

Peter glances over to Neal, surprised to see the content half smile on the other man's face. "I can't believe you actually like this."

Neal grins openly now. He shifts in his seat, turns his whole body to Peter. "Why not? It's interesting, we're hiding, no one knows what might happen."

Peter feels something ease inside him. This is good. This is normal. They are normal.

Peter matches Neal's grin. "You hate the van."

"Of course I hate the van. The van is small and smelly and ... not elegant."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Not elegant?"

"It's filled with half a dozen people, everyone staring at a screen or listening into their headphones," Neal waves his hand. "There's no style to it and it's boring."

"And sitting in my old car has style?"

Neal shrugs his shoulder, turns his gaze back out over across the street, where they're spying on their person of interest. "I like your car."

Peter snorts, shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything else.

In fact, he feels good the way it is now. He has his coffee right next to him, a bag of bagels in the back of the car, and Neal and him.

They're okay.

 

"Do you really think he's in there?" Neal leans towards him, suddenly and hours later where neither of them said a word, and Peter startles, can't hide the goose bumps running over his skin as Neal's hair tickles Peter's skin for a moment.

"We hope so. It's the most likely place."

"If he really did make the trade, he would have shown up by now. One of us would have seen him." Peter looks at his friend, finds Neal chewing on his lips and brows drawn together in thought.

"But why would he want to keep it? Half the city is looking for him. Don't you think that even he realizes now that the risk is way too high. Plus," Peter points out. "He knows at least someone knows he has it."

Neal turns and grins at him, proudly, and Peter doesn't have it in him right now to tell him again what a stupid and reckless and illegal idea it was, to break into that guys' apartment.

Neal shakes his head shortly. "I still think he's not going to sell it."

Peter watches Neal openly, the other man looking out of the window. There's something ... tingling in his fingertips, his heartbeat quickening a little.

"If you're sure that he's not gonna show," Peter starts, his voice surprisingly even," why did you come then?"

Peter clears his throat, keeps his eyes on Neal, and it takes a moment until he turns around, meets Peter's eyes.

"Told you. I said I like the car."

If Peter was anybody else, anyone, he would have believed that. But he isn't, he's Peter Burke, and he knows Neal better than anyone else, so he can see right through, see that lie right behind the clear - beautiful, breathtaking - eyes.

Peter can think of two options why Neal would lie about this to him. One would bring Neal right back into jail and the other ... the other makes Peter's mouth go dry and his heart beat painfully against his chest.

The space of the car feels suddenly too tight, the air too thin, and Peter is aware of every move Neal makes, of every twist and turn of his head, of every time he raises his hands to brush a hair out of his face, of every goddamn breath he takes.

Peter glances at his watch. He's thinking about how soon would be too soon to call this whole stake out off.

 

\-- 2//5 --

 

The car stops eventually at Neal's place and Neal startles, wasn't paying attention, too wrapped up in his own mind. The atmosphere has calmed down between them, almost feels comfortable again, but it's Neal's skin that's itching, feeling too thin and too tight, like it's not fitting him anymore and his heart is beating rapidly in his chest as if it knows something Neal doesn't yet.

"We're there," Peter says and his low voice rumbles through the intimate confines of the car. "You don't want to leave?"

No, it screams inside Neal's head, the right answer to a different question and it hurts, hurts knowing that he has to go still, has to pack up and leave. It hurts that there is no other choice for him, now more than ever. He loves these people too much, enough not to want to hurt them, dangerously close to enough not to care about that anymore.

"Yeah." Neal nods, his hand grabbing for the door. "Yeah, sure."

"Okay, see you in the morning," Peter says warily, shows him a small smile, and Neal forces one of his own.

He has one feet on the sidewalk when his blood runs too hot, his lungs get too tight, and he turns back around. He reaches for Peter, grabs his collar with one hand and the back of the other man's head with the other, and he pulls, captures Peter's lips in a heartbeat.

It feels like heaven, like sin, better than anything else he's tasted, and Neal needs more, already, pushes in and opens Peter's mouth with his tongue.

He groans, matching the noises Peter's making, when the other man lets him.

It's over as fast as it started. Neal pulls away, his body screaming at him as he turns away, ripping himself off the other man and he can't look, can't watch Peter, as he climbs out of the car into the cool morning air and slams the door shut.

He still waits at the side. His feet are frozen to the ground, his lungs burning, and he's made a mistake, again, and all he can think of right now is how he wants to get back into this car and do it all over again.

He thinks of Elizabeth and his heart is bursting with guilt, but he's already too deep in, already learned the taste of her husband, the feel of his lips against Neal's own, and there's nothing he can do to erase that. To un-want that.

Peter doesn't drive off, not at first.

Neal can't really see his face, can only see Peter's hands on the wheel, trembling.

I did this, he thinks with a mixture of guilt and arousal.

The start of the engine makes Neal jerk, makes him draw in a sharp breath and when Peter finally drives off, and Neal can imagine how a real goodbye will feel.

 

\-- 2//6 --

 

Peter parks the car, kills the engine, and when he catches sight of his hands, he finds that they are still shaking.

With wobbly legs, he gets out of his car and manages to shut the door quietly enough, makes his way to the house and unlocks the front door, the keys jingling in his hands.

He's tired. Dead on his feet tired, but he feels also more awake than ever, the adrenaline still spiking high, and he doesn't know what to do with this, doesn't know what to do with the knowledge of the last few hours.

This is worse than the first time, when he could still blame it on a spur of the moment, a lapse of judgment. This is worse. Because this is twice.

Peter knows he has to tell Elizabeth, knows that he can't hide this from her another day. But he's dreading that talk, would do anything to spare his wife the pain it will cause.

Peter pauses in the living room, leaning his head against the wall. He can't do it anymore. Can't bare it alone another second. What he feels ... what he wants, it scares him, hurts him and deep down, it excites him more than he would ever be able to admit.

However, it doesn't change a single thing about how much he loves his wife, how much he respects her and how much he cares about her.

"Honey." The voice comes from the stairs and the light is switched on, blinding Peter for a second.

Elizabeth is standing at the foot of the stairs, beautiful in her nightdress, her lovely eyes set worriedly on her husband.

Peter's heart breaks seeing her like this, knowing that he caused it.

"You know what I'm most afraid of?" she asks and her voice barely trembles. "This. You. Not talking me to me."


	4. three

\-- 3//1 --

 

Early morning sun tickles Neal's ear, but he's already awake, already been up a few hours.

He's standing on his balcony, New York lying at his feet, right out of his grasp, and he breathes in deeply, tastes the fresh but still sweet air on his tongue.

He's ready.

For a normal eye, his apartment looks like he's just gone for work; a clean, nice living space with a tasteful decoration.

But with a closer look, it's evident that Neal Caffrey is gone.

Neal can't believe how hard it is, this time. He's left often enough to mix up the chronology of the names he's used, doesn't remember all the places he's called home temporarily.

And yet, it had never felt like leaving _a_ home before.

Neal's eyes fall on the table, fall on the note he left for Sarah. For Elizabeth.

There's none for Mozzie because Mozzie will know, will understand.

Neal smiles. Mozzie will be mad at him for the rest of their lives, but he will understand. He will still have the treasure, so maybe he will leave too.

There's no note for Peter either. Simply because Neal doesn't know what to say.

 

\-- 3//2 --

 

"You didn't want to leave without saying goodbye, did you?" June appears in the door, smiling, but it's sad. Like she knows.

Neal doesn't answer, doesn't know what to say that isn't showing on his face already.

"This time it's for good, isn't it?"

Neal nods, closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, June has one hand placed on his arm and her face is changed. Worried.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

Neal sighs, blinks against the tears threatening in his eyes.

It's the one question he can't answer, the one thing for the first time in his life he's not sure about.

"I don't know," he whispers. "But I have to. I ..."

"Shhh." She puts a finger on his lips, caresses his cheek like a mother does. "You don't have to tell me anything, Neal. I trust you. I just hope you can trust yourself."

"What do you mean?" Neal asks, although he's afraid that he won't like the answer.

June tilts her head, studies him for a moment. "There are people here that mean a lot to you, Neal. Who you mean a lot to as well. Are you sure that you're ready to leave all that behind?"

It's too much suddenly, June too close, both to him and to the truth, and Neal gently snatches out of her grip, steps back, throwing her a pained look.

The old lady sighs, and then she nods. "I see. Well, I hope you know that you're always welcome here, Neal."

Neal nods. "Thank you," he whispers and for all the times he's been running it never has been this hard.

June turns around, the heels of her shoes clicking on the floor as she leaves for the door. Neal hears her stop. He turns his head, catching the woman's gaze.

"Neal, could you do me one favor?"

Neal nods, hoping it will something he's able to do.

"Don't leave without a goodbye."

Neal swallows. He nods, although he's not sure if he can do it. Neal knows that she's not talking about herself.

 

\-- 3//3 --

 

Neal is standing in the park, hidden from view, only surrounded by a few homeless men and women, when his phone rings.

He startles, earning a few moody glances, but they let him do his thing.

Neal grabs his phone out of his pocket and throws his last ID into the barrel, the fire dancing in front of his eyes.

The name Neal Caffrey burns easily and fast.

"Hello?"

"Neal, this is Elizabeth," a familiar voice sings through the phone and Neal is speechless for a moment, didn't expect her of all people.

The smell of burned rubber and plastic tickles in his nose.

"Hey, Elizabeth," Neal says, hoping to sound normal enough. "Is everything alright?"

Neal steels himself for it, waits for it, waits for her screaming at him, calling him names.

Waits for her to say all the things that Neal deserves to hear, because Peter must have told her, of course he must.

"Everything is perfectly alright, Neal," she says, her voice warm and lovely and nice, and Neal feels so guilty he wants to cry with it.

 _I love your husband_ , Neal thinks and it's the first time he's put it into a sentence in his head.

"There's only one thing," she teases and suddenly Neal doesn't want to wait, wants to get this over and done with or not at all.

He contemplates hanging up, just closing the phone and throwing it into the barrel too.

"Peter and I were wondering if you might want to join us for dinner tonight?"

It's not even close to anything Neal was expecting.

"Are you ... sure?" Neal asks.

"Of course I am! Neal, we would love to have you here. What do you say? Seven-ish?"

Neal has to decline, has to say no. There are a million and one reasons why this is a bad idea and surely Peter doesn't really want him to come.

Neal can't say any of it, can't pull a convincing lie out of his sleeve.

Before he even realizes it, he's saying yes, then goodbye, and closing the phone.

The fire keeps dancing in front of his eyes.

 

\-- 3//4 --

 

It takes Neal full five minutes to find the courage and walk the last few steps up to the Burke's front door. There's a tremor in his hands when he pushes the doorbell that he's desperately trying to hide.

This is insane. He's never felt this much out of his depth. He's been conning people, stealing from the greatest museums and mob bosses, running from the FBI, and visiting jail for the better part of his life, but this, right here, is what makes his heart beat fast in his chest and what makes his palms sweat.

The door opens.

"Hey, Neal," Elizabeth smiles at him, open and friendly as ever, maybe even more than usually, and Neal can't really breathe underneath the guilt that's crushing him.

She swings the door wide open, inviting him in, and Neal crosses the threshold with shaky legs.

"Hey, Neal," Peter mirrors his wife, but his smile is a little less enthusiastic, a little more nervous.

Neal wonders how it can feel like walking into your home and walking right into the fire at the same time.

The dinner table looks lovely.

Set for three, placed at one end. It's cozy. Intimate.

Neal swallows thickly and sits down.

 

Despite everything, Neal has a great time.

The food is amazing, the vine just as good, and the words flow easily between them. Neal finds himself laughing more than he has in a while, finds himself grinning at Elizabeth and thinking, _I love you, too_ , and it hurts just as much but it also feels good.

It connects him to these people, makes him part of something bigger and better than him. Even if it's just for tonight. Even if tomorrow all Neal is gonna have is a memory.

"More vine?" Peter asks, looking at Neal with a glint in his eyes. He's been ... different all night, relaxed and comfortable. If Neal wouldn't have known better, he would even say Peter was flirting with him just as much as he was with his wife.

"I can't refuse that offer," Neal answers, but he gets up, too, brings his glass over to the kitchen.

His steps are a little shaky, his smile faltering just a little, when Elizabeth follows, caressing Neal's shoulder as she walks past. It's a small gesture. But she's been doing it all night, just like Peter has, and Neal feels so ... At home, so ... loved.

It's breaking his heart.

 

A sound outside, the honking of a car, is breaking their little bubble.

"Oh, that's my cab," Elizabeth announces, her eyes lighting up.

"Where are you going?" Neal asks her, wondering if that means that he should leave too.

He doesn't want to yet.

"I'm going to a friend of mine for the night," Elizabeth explains, grabbing her purse and putting on her shoes. "Her husband left tonight for Iraq, I promised to keep her company."

She's rushing back to them, her heels making noise on the kitchen tiles.

"Stay here and feel right at home," she says to Neal, reaches up to place a kiss on his cheek.

"Have fun, honey." She turns to her husband, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"Thank you, hon," Peter says to her and Neal can hear the warmth in his friend's voice. "I love you."

Elizabeth smiles, both at Neal and at Peter.

"You, too." She turns around, making her way to the front door.

"Goodbye, have a good time," she calls over her shoulder.

"Goodbye," Neal and Peter answer in unison.

 

\-- 3//5 --

 

The front door shuts and the sound echoes through the house, making Neal very aware of how alone they are now and how close they are standing. The light coming from the dining room is enough to make them able to see, but it's still dark in the kitchen, and suddenly quiet. Intimate.

Neal is holding onto his glass for dear life, the whole night has already been too much for him, shaking him up to his core and he doesn't know what to do now.

He wants to run and never look back.

He wants to never leave at all.

"Neal, what is wrong?" Peter asks quietly into the night, and the sound of his voice is soothing, caressing, where the meaning of it is not.

"What do you mean?" Neal tries, settles against the kitchen counter, and Peter is looking at him; Neal can feel the other man's eyes on his face like a touch.

"I mean this, you. The case." Peter takes a deep breath, tries to relax next to Neal and it helps, helps Neal to relax too. "There is more to it than you're telling me."

Peter knows he's right and that's the worst of it. That Neal can't deny, can't change the subject into them, and what has been going on between them, although it's part of it. Neal knows that Peter is serious here, waiting for the whole truth, not just fractures.

"Peter, my name is not Neal Caffrey."

It's easy suddenly, easy to say this out loud, to reveal the last and fundamental truth about him, and he hears Peter take in a sharp breath, but nothing more, nothing else, and maybe he's suspected it all along.

"You gonna tell me your real name?"

Neal turns, catches Peter's eyes and that's answer enough.

"So." Peter takes another moment, sips on his glass. "What has that to do with the case?"

Neal closes his eyes against the sudden burst of images firing up in his head. Faces, long forgotten, and names, sounding foreign to him.

"Everything left of me, the real me, is in a thin folder. Everything else I erased, destroyed. Not even Mozzie knows it, not even Kate did, nobody does." It's getting cold, suddenly, Neal is getting goose bumps all over and he wraps his arms around himself.

Peter doesn't seem to feel the sudden drop of temperature.

"I hid that folder where no one else would be able to look. Where even I would have trouble to go back to ever again."

He knows that Peter starts connecting the dots, knows when the other man gets it, in Peter's sharp intake of breath. "You were the first attempt to steal the painting."

Neal nods and their eyes meet again.

"But you didn't wanna steal it, you just wanted to hide something. In the painting!"

Neal closes his eyes. The cold is getting worse, his heartbeat galloping in his chest, and he's starting to feel dizzy.

"Neal." Peter sounds concerned, draws closer. Neal can feel their arms touching, feels the other man's warmth on his side and it's enough to chase the worst of the cold away.

"Neal, talk to me."

"Peter, I can't..." He takes a shaky breath, and Peter moves, places his hand, a warm, calming hand, on Neal's back, starts rubbing it slowly. "I can't let anyone see it, let anyone find out. My past is .... I should have destroyed it, I don't even know why I still kept it, I should have burned it all, should have erased me when I still had the chance. I ..."

He's pulled into a hug, Peter suddenly in front of him, warm and welcome and home, and Neal bites his tongue not to start sobbing into the other man's shirt.

"It's all right, Neal. It's all right."

Neal hears the cling of glass hitting the table and knows that Peter had rescued the wine from his trembling hand and then he keeps rubbing his back, keeps talking to him, calming him down.

It's making it worse.

Neal remembers the car waiting for him, the tiny bag packed, his new name already dancing on his lips, and right now, he has no idea how to do it, how to leave and lose this, right here, without dying as soon as his feet cross the threshold.

"I don't know how bad it was," Peter mumbles into Neal's neck, the rush of words tickling his skin. "I don't know what you're running from, what you're risking everything for, but I can promise you Neal, I promise you, that you have a new life now. Here. With us. And if you let me, I'll do anything to protect it. Do you hear me?"

Neal shudders in Peter's arms, can't barely do anything but holding onto him.

He doesn't even know he's moving his head, doesn't even recognize his own voice making desperate noises, until his lips touch Peter's, until the pain itching under his skin suddenly silences.

 

\-- 3//6 --

 

The first contact, the first hesitant brush of lips, is as startling as the first time, as devastating as the second. But this is more now. This is tender and sweet and no rush.

Neal leans forward, tilts his head, and Peter follows easily.

Immediately, Neal relishes the taste of Peter, the texture of his tongue. He moans softly into the other man's mouth, pulls him closer on instinct, wanting to get more of that.

Peter's not hesitant this time, not holding back and it sends shivers down Neal's spine how much he's giving.

 

They walk slowly, neither pushing or pulling, both moving in a strange sort of dance, in synch, and completely unaware.

Neal can't keep his hands away, has them buried underneath Peter's shirt, pulled up frantically for the need of skin. Peter's scent fills his nostrils, the feeling of him surrounding him completely, and there's something building inside him.

Deep and hungry.

Peter moans, loud and open, as they hit the bed of the guestroom - closest bed, better than the couch and Neal is not thinking about the master bedroom now, about Elizabeth, can't - and Neal falls on top of Peter, crawls up on him completely, pushing their bodies together.

For a moment, their eyes meet. It's dark inside here, neither bothering to switch on a light, but there's enough so they can see each other, so Neal can see the wonder and hunger in Peter's eyes.

He swallows, takes in a shaky breath, and presses himself down on Peter, using his own body to create this wonderful perfect friction. To create the wonderful thrilling sounds Peter's making.

Neal has trouble unbuttoning Peter's shirt, can't keep from kissing him, can't think.

It's Peter, who finally has mercy, pushes Neal off for a moment to remove his shirt just before he grabs for Neal's, pulling it right over his head.

They're not saying a word, falling back into each other's arms as soon as the shirts are gone.

Neal feels his lips burn, feel the sweet ache they get from kissing too much, too long. But Neal. can't. stop.

He's hard in his pants, just as Peter beneath him, but it's the kissing he can't get enough of, the kissing that's driving him crazy.

And Peter doesn't let go.

Neal's lips wander down the other man's neck, suck little kisses down the chest, just to be pulled up by Peter, just to be captured by that sweet, perfect mouth.

Peter is moving underneath him, writhing, and Neal's right there with him, both of them establishing a rhythm that's making Neal's toes crawl.

There is a thought in the back of his mind, the small regret that he isn't showing Peter everything. That this will be over far too soon, before Neal can show him all the ways men can be together.

Neal wants this. Wants so bad to be the person - the first, the only - to introduce Peter in all kinds of sex between men.

But he wants this more, this: Peter losing his rhythm, Peter groaning and moaning, Peter, being too far gone to hold on properly, to kiss properly, just begging for more.

Peter throws his head back, whispers breathless words - Neal's name and curses all mixed together - and Neal doesn't hesitate, he let's his tongue travel behind Peter's ear, bites gently down on the delicate skin, and he pushes with his hips, harder now, faster.

Peter goes still, his hands tightening on Neal's skin, clawing at him as he comes, suddenly, violently, and there's the hint of regret again: Neal wishes he could see, wishes Peter's cum would splatter onto his belly so he could lick it off, wishes he would come inside Neal's mouth, inside Neal.

It's the last thought that drives Neal over the edge, makes him follow Peter so soon.


	5. four

\-- 4//1 --

Neal blinks himself awake, disoriented for a second, before he feels another body next to him, feels the heavy comforting weight of an arm around his torso and the soft touch of lips against his shoulder.

He wants to cry with it. He knows what he feels, knows what this is in his heart, clenching it, hurting it.

It's love and it's too soon after Kate, too familiar, too dangerous.

Neal swallows heavily, can't understand how he ended up here, in the bed of the man who once stole him away from Kate, who locked him up and let him back out again. He looks down at Peter, his eyes traveling over the smooth skin of the other man, the soft curve of his lips.

He lingers there for a second, basks in the warmth of another person he knows, he trusts, he loves, for one moment longer, before he carefully slides from underneath the sheets and climbs out of the bed.

 

It's warm in the house, the floor soft and comfortable under his bare feet, when Neal wanders through it. It's not completely dark, city lights giving just enough shine that he can make his way through the rooms.

He doesn't know what drives him, doesn't question it; he just follows his steps, wandering through a home that is not his, but might as well be.

He touches a hand to the table where they just ate a few hours ago, stands a moment by the door to the patio. He studies the pictures on the wall and on the shelves, closes his eyes a moment standing in the hallway.

He imagines that this is his life, his home, safe for him to be. He imagines what it would feel like to belong here, to be part of this. What it would feel like to just walk back into the bedroom, crawling back underneath the sheets and curling himself up against the warm sleeping body. To be able to sleep until the morning and wake up in another person's arms. To sit at a breakfast table, surrounded by the people he belonged to.

He imagines what it would feel like to have that. Every day.

Neal lets out a deep breath and opens his eyes. It's time for him to go.

 

\-- 4//2 --

 

It's cold outside. A cold that seeps right underneath his skin, freezes him from the inside out. Neal clenches his jaw and keeps on walking.

There is one more place he needs to go to before he can leave for good.

 

It's not a plan he had thought out long, not something he's been mulling over and over. But it's a backup plan, something that's been in the back of his head for years, always looming just underneath the surface, ready to be pulled out if needed.

Neal walks a few blocks, before he raises an arm and calls down a cab.

The driver is in his mid-fifties, doesn't talk much about asking for the address and other than that minding his own business.

Neal gets in the back, reaches for the small bag he's been carrying with him.

His moves are quick and efficient, as he gets out the small, black device he's been hiding under the floor of his apartment, together with the ID.

He hasn't tried it yet, can't be sure that it's really working the way it should be.

But his hands don't shake as he pulls up the leg of his pants, resting his foot on his knee. The light of the anklet is blinking rhythmically.

Neal looks up.

He has to hurry, he's only left a minute or two before he leaves his radius.

Neal pulls a needle from his sleeve, hidden beneath the fabric.

It only takes him a second to unlock the anklet, but that's not the problem. He's trained on similar ones hundreds of times for this moment.

It's getting the device between the open ends fast enough before the signal sends again, that's causing a little trouble.

Neal holds his breath as the little machine clicks into place. The cab driver doesn't even glance back in his direction.

It works.

The green light keeps blinking calmly just like it did before and Neal breathes out carefully, something inside him loosening up.

And something else clenching deep inside his belly.

There's no going back now.

Neal slips the anklet from his foot, which is wider now, easily to slip out of.

He rubs his ankle, feels weird now that the weight is gone.

"This is your stop," the cab driver announces from the front and Neal nods, hands him some dollar bills, and gets out of the car.

He doesn't watch the cab leave, just turns around the corner and ignores the tickling in the back of his head.

The anklet is leaving his radius.

Neal looks down at his watch.

He doesn't have much time until the FBI will figure out that he's not in that cab.

 

\-- 4//3 --

 

Peter finds him exactly where he thought he would.

He calls Jones, ordering him to stay back and let him do this alone.

Peter gets out his car, his hands brushing over the gun in the holster and the handcuffs dangling from his belt.

This is hard enough as it is.

He makes his way to the park house, uses the key he has from a few days ago to get into private garage of Jeffrey Eindhoven.

He doesn't have a search warrant and that's what has been keeping him from going in here.

But he doesn't need it right now.

There's a thief in the garage he has to catch.

 

"Step away from the car!"

Neal swivels around to him, making huge eyes at Peter. And the gun pointing at him.

"Peter," Neal breathes out. He doesn't put his hands in the air, just stares.

"I know you better than anyone else, remember? I always catch you." The words have never hurt more, biting their way through his chest. Peter doesn't lower his gun; he won't shoot, would never shoot, but Neal doesn't need to know that and Peter needs his hands raised and with the gun pointing at the suspect to keep a grip on himself.

"Neal, what are you doing here?" He asks his friend and he hopes the other man catches the meaning of his words.

Neal takes a look at the open trunk. "There's something I had still left to do," he whispers.

Peter takes a few steps forward, sideglances into the car.

There it is, The Starry Night. Undamaged.

Peter can still smell the traces of fire. He finds a tiny pile of ash by Neal's feet.

Peter lets out a deep breath. It's too late. Neal has now destroyed the last traces from his past. Now Peter will never know.

"How did you know?" Neal asks him, getting his focus away from the burned paper.

"That it's here? In his car?"

Neal nods.

"Lucky guess," Peter shrugs. "We found another video from one of the streets. It showed us Jeffrey's car driving away from the crime scene. Who would have thought he'd taken his own car?"

There's a ghost of smile on Neal's lips and Peter wishes that he wasn't here, that they both weren't here right now. He wishes it so bad that it starts burning behind his eyes.

"How did you know?" he asks Neal.

"Saw the car keys in his apartment. The way it looks in there, he doesn't seem to like moving things so much. I figured that if he'd taken the painting with him, it might still be where he put it in the first place."

"The trunk of his car," Peter concludes.

Neal nods. "The trunk."

Peter takes another step, letting his arms fall down halfway.

"You know what's coming now, Neal," he whispers, searches the other man's eyes, and all he can find in Neal is a mirror of his own pain.

"I know."

"You're arrested," Peter starts mechanically, keeps listing all the cold, hard facts and feels himself grow cold inside. "For breaking and entering. For leaving your radius. For cutting off your anklet. For trying to skip town although you're in the custody of the FBI."

Peter looks up, Neal's so close. And his eyes look sad.

"I was at June's, Neal. Your place is empty." Peter explains and he can't even tell Neal how that felt. How it had hurt opening the door to an apartment where Neal Caffrey didn't exist any longer.

Neal bites down on his lower lip and Peter tracks the movement for a second before he looks up again.

"You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?" Peter asks. His voice breaks at the last word.

Neal doesn't answer. He doesn't struggle either. He lets himself be turned around, lets Peter put on the cuffs behind his back.

And if Peter hesitates, lingers, for a moment with his hands around Neal's and standing close enough to inhale the faint scent of Neal's hair, neither says anything about it.

 

\-- 4//4 --

 

The heat of Peter's hands burns into Neal's skin where he's holding onto him, steering him down the path to Peter's car.

For now, Neal lets himself be stern. And secretly, he's savoring the feeling of Peter's hands on him, of the sound of their steps falling onto the street in synch. He tries to memorize the way Peter is walking so close behind him, their arms brushing, even their legs with every other step.

There has never been a lock Neal couldn't pick.

And he's missed a few hundred opportunities to leave. Every second that ticks by.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t yet, he only knows that he will have to eventually.

“Watch it,” Peter mumbles, years of training letting him reach out for Neal’s head, pushing him down while shielding it from the roof of the car.

Neal is not sure if he imagines Peter’s breath hitch.

Neal hasn’t been sitting in the back of this car since the last time Peter caught him. It feels different this time. Final.

He watches Peter. Watches the back of his head and the hands on the wheel. His friend's posture is stiff, uneasy, and Neal can see how much this costs Peter.

Deep down, Neal admires him. He knows what Peter feels for him, knows, even before everything happened between them, that Peter cared a lot about him. And he's still doing the right thing. Even if that means to put handcuffs on a man he calls his friend.

Neal swallows thickly.

Even if it means to put handcuffs on a man he maybe lov...

Neal shakes his head, tries to get rid of the thoughts dancing inside his mind. He needs to concentrate now, needs to leave before it's too late.

 

Neal waits until the car stops.

Peter is doing him a favor, or saving himself the humiliation and pain, and he parks the car in an alley behind the FBI building.

He wears a stern face, when he gets out and opens the door for Neal. He's not looking at him, doesn't meet his eyes for even a second.

Just steps back enough that Neal can climb out of the car.

Neal takes his time.

His heart is racing, pounding inside his chest.

He gets up, brushes against Peter as he's getting out, and the touch makes Peter look up, breaks the mask he's so desperately clinging to, and Neal's breath hitches now as he pushes forward, moves the last few inches until he's right in Peter's space.

Later, he will never be able to tell if it was Peter or him taking the last distance and bringing their lips together.

It's a bittersweet kiss, meant to be the last, and Neal closes his eyes and only lets himself feel for a precious second.

Peter does the same. He doesn't back away, doesn't break the kiss, doesn't move at all.

It's Neal pulling back.

He doesn't open his eyes, just moves so their cheeks touch and Neal's lips brush against Peter's temple.

"Goodbye," he whispers, the word scratching his throat raw, and then he turns around, opens his eyes, and walks away.

Peter doesn't say anything, doesn't call after him, doesn't call for help.

Neal just imagines that he can hear him breathe out shakily, under the jingle of the handcuffs that lock Peter firmly to the door handle of his car now.

Neal will never know if Peter just let it happen.

He will never ask.


	6. epilogue

\-- epilogue --

 

It's cold outside, Neal can see his breath, feels the air bite into his nose and the tips of his ears.

Things haven't change much, everything still looks almost the same. Except for the Christmas lights hanging in the windows, and the advent wreath on the front door.

He can't see them from where he's sitting, doesn't get too close. Seeing them could mean they see him and that's a risk Neal can't take. But he can see the light in the windows, the flicker of the TV and he can imagine Peter and Elizabeth in there, pictures them on their sofa, smiles on their faces, maybe a drink in their hands. He imagines Satchmo sitting at their feet while they're watching an old Christmas movie, Elizabeth curled up against Peter, his hand resting on her hip.

Neal didn't even make a whole year without this. Couldn't stay away even those few months and still, it feels like a lifetime lying between then and now.

Then, Neal had friends, a life, a family.

Now has him sitting on the roof of a garage, spying into the perfect little world he once had been a part of.

He doesn't feel the cold anymore. He's wearing a coat and a scarf and a cap, but the skin of his face is numb. He wanted to leave for hours ago, but every time he turns his head, ready to move, he remembers that he has nowhere to go. Nothing but an empty apartment in a nameless city so far away from here, from this.

"Neal."

There's a click of a gun being cocked, Peter acting on instinct, reflexes; he would never shoot him, not for real.

But Neal doesn't move from his place and reminds himself that he doesn't know anything anymore. 

"Neal." Peter says again, and he's closer now, Neal could see his face if Neal would just turn his head.

He can't. He felt like this before, back when he found the bottle in the empty apartment. Peter had been there too, and it's ironic that Peter is here now. Always catching Neal at his lowest. When he's reached the point where he's just giving up, just giving in.

"At least look at me!"

Neal does. Peter looks ... devastated, all color drained from his face, his stoic mask replaced by display of emotion. He looks shocked and angry and relieved, all rolled into one.

"Why did you come here?" Peter asks, lowering his gun now as if it's forgotten in his hand.

Neal swallows; his throat is dry. "It's Christmas," he simply says but he catches Peter's gaze and knows that he understands everything Neal is not able to say.

"Oh my god, Neal!" 

Neal's head swivels around, and there's Elizabeth climbing up the ladder.

It's ridiculous; Neal imagines people finding them here, a con-man, an FBI agent and his wife, climbing on top of the neighbor's garage on Christmas night.

Neal is scared of meeting her eyes, afraid of what he will find in her gaze, but he can't look away, has missed her too.

So much. So much.

Elizabeth walks closer, carefully keeping her balance on the roof, and her eyes are filled with tears. "Neal, get up there. You're gonna catch cold sitting there." She doesn't stop until she's reached him, pulling him up with her bare hands, and Neal can't do anything but follow her, let himself be pulled.

"My god, you must be freezing!" She looks up to him now, one hand cupping Neal's cheek and she's frantically pulling at his clothes, making sure he's wearing enough, he's covered enough from the cold.

"El." Peter takes a step towards them, putting a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, and Neal sees her look up, watches them exchanging a glance. Elizabeth is tilting her head, asking a question with the frown on her face and the tears in her eyes.

Neal doesn't dare to move, can't, even if he wanted too. He's engulfed by warmth, surrounded by the people he loves most in this world, and it's simply too much. 

"You're gonna come home with us, Neal?" 

Neal stares at her for the longest time, feels her hands still kneading the color of his coat.

"Please," she whispers, and Neal turns his head, catching Peter's gaze.

"Please," Peter whispers too, taking a deep breath as if it's the hardest thing he's ever done in his life, and that's it, the last straw.

Neal draws in a sharp breath, tears stinging in his own eyes now and his throat burns. He nods, doesn't trust his voice to speak, but he nods, looking at Elizabeth and then at Peter. He reaches for Elizabeth's hand and she returns the touch eagerly, squeezing his hand. 

It's when Peter reaches for his other hand, mirroring his wife's gesture, that Neal truly feels home.

It's not the end of the story, not the end of the things sitting and growing between them.

But tonight, Neal will climb down that ladder with Peter and Elizabeth. And he will be welcomed into their home, will get a spot on the couch and a hot drink for himself. He will be greeted by Satchmo until he's lying on the living room floor with dog slobbering all over him and laughter will fill the house, just like the smell of freshly baked cookies and the sound of Christmas carols on TV.

Elizabeth will not ask about where Neal had been the whole time, but she will tell him stories about the things that had happened while Neal had been away. She will talk about June and her new boyfriend, about the three times when Mozzie had found an excuse to come into their home and spend some time with board games and playing cards.

Peter will tell him about the new cases, the things that had been stolen and saved again, as if Neal hadn't heard about it before. Late at night, with only the two of them in the kitchen, he will ask Neal for one thing. He will ask for his real name and Neal will bite his lip but then he'll nod and he will promise that he'd tell them in the morning. Just that. Just his first name. And Peter will agree to that.

There will be hugs and innocent touches. There will be glances and soft smiles and Neal almost dropping off with his head on Elizabeth's shoulder. There will be no kiss tonight. Nothing more. Neal will not share their bed, but take the one in the guestroom and get a good, perfect night's sleep. Nothing will happen between them tonight.

But for Neal, Elizabeth and Peter, there will be a tomorrow.

 

\-- the end --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for going on this ride with me! For being patient and giving a chance with this fandom! thank you for your kudos and comments! *hugs everyone tightly* :D


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